to write about the light of night stars,
how they pale against the harvest  
she gathers in her eyes from only the sun
would be like tracing the outline of a scar
with a blade, to bleed in silence
for the lust and addiction to old memories  

thus, there remains no reason to write
about passions when they poison;
for longing when one does not belong;
nor for desire burning into cold fire  

without a reason for love and living
i will court and be intimate with dying